Otherwise known as The Day That I Carried My Camera Everywhere And Took Far Too Many Pictures.

It was more work than I expected, too, trying to keep track of everyone and hit the high points of their day. (Not “high points” as in rah-rah-yay, but “high points” as in it was a listable and photographicable moment.) (And there’s two new words for you, you’re welcome.)

You’ll notice that many of the pictures are taken in the kitchen, on the porch, etc, and not in the orchard picking the pears (off the dying tree) or at the chicken coop dumping the compost over the fence or in the garden digging potatoes because I would’ve made myself crazy-insane following the kids around while they did the chores. For most of what goes on around here, I station myself in the kitchen and monitor the flow of people in and out the doors as they go about executing their tasks. (It sounds almost gory when I say it that way, “executing their tasks.” I like that.)

I still missed bunches of stuff, like the kids waking up in the yard and riding their bikes and me on the phone and doing paperwork and giving orders, but this is entirely too long as is. And probably way too dull, as well. You’ll all be sobbing with boredom by the time you reach the end. I’m sorry.

On the other hand (I just can’t seem to stuff it with the preambles, can I?), this is the Ordinary that makes up my days. It’s my life as is, no bells and whistles, profound thoughts, or glamor included. And that’s gotta be worth something, I think. (At least I tell myself that, since it’s what I do all the freaking day long.)

Part One: The Pictures

Not in any particular order

Part Two: The Words

Also not in any particular order (and not necessarily to correspond with the pictures)

*Waking up in the yard where they had spent the night (just the older two) and then putting away all the bedding

*Finding matching shoes in the back hall (always a struggle)

*Hanging laundry

*A six mile round-trip bike ride to the post office for stamps, and also exercise—just the older two kids

*An imaginative game of the most engrossing variety that went on for hours.

*Checking the pears (and eating one!)

*Emptying the compost (many times over)

*Playing typing games on the computer

*Dish washing (and accidental glass breaking—lately we’ve had far too many of these—I better make a run to the thrift store or we’ll soon be eating off the floor)

*A drive to a local orchard for two bushels of Summer Rambo apples and a half bushel mix of Ginger Golds and Gala.

*Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes—roasted tomato sauce (it’s my fav, make it) and stewed.

*Quiet reading time (he’s plowing through Little Men, his choice)

*Eating: oatmeal and canned peaches, leftover buttermilk donuts from a failed cake donut experiment (the picture is from the night before), peas, leftover mac and cheese, apples and peanut butter, pb&j sandwiches, the last drops of flat root beer, one fluffernutter graham cracker sandwich shared four ways, coffee, both hot and iced, green beans, corn, baked potatoes, apple crisp, vanilla ice cream, milk, etc (it takes a lot to fill our tanks)

*Major freak out thoughts about the three bushels of peaches and four bushels of nectarines that are due to hit my kitchen on Saturday

*Computer time, oh happy computer time

*Rest time (why does she have a toothbrush in her mouth?)

*A rest time treat of one stale and chewy candy cane, divided four ways

*Vacuuming up the little bits of styrofoam he mashed into the floor

*Mowing the lawn

*Intense negotiations revolving around the aforementioned lawn mowing

*digging potatoes for supper

*Wine, yes

*Setting the table

*Tomato picking (and picking and picking)

*Play dough creations proudly presented to the weary mater pickers

*Zonking out, finally

I’ve taken pictures in preparation for a post about my standard apple crisp recipe on three separate occasions, so it’s ironic that this time, the third time, the time when I finally get around to posting it, the pictures are so bad. It’s because the kids were taking them, the lighting was weird because the shades were drawn against the blinding sun, and I was getting sick of snapping pictures of every little thing that happened.

Plus, my hands were all gunked up with buttery crumbs so I couldn’t exactly wield a camera very well. (Some of the pixs are mine and I have no excuse except sloppiness. Oh well.)

But about the crisp. I dig all sorts of cobblers and crisps, but when it’s time for supper and I have fruit on the counter and don’t know what to do with it, I invariably resort to this recipe. It’s quick—just oats, brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, and butter, all rubbed together till crumbly—but it delivers all the oatmeal crunch and buttery-cinnamon lip-smacking flavor you could wish for.

We topped our apple crisp with a little vanilla ice cream left over from the weekend’s root beer floats, but usually we simply drown it in cold milk and then eat till we bloat.

Basic Fruit Crisp

This makes enough topping for four cups of chopped fruit. When doubling the recipe I don’t fully double the butter, using only 14 tablespoons instead of the called for 16, or thereabouts.

Also, I like to sneak more fruit into the pan, maybe five ample cups instead of four.

I used Gala apples for this crisp and they were delicious.

1 cup rolled oats

½ cup brown sugar, packed

½ cup flour

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 stick butter

4-5 cups prepared fruit (apples, peaches, nectarines, berries, etc)

Put the fruit into a greased 8×8-inch pan.

Dump the remaining ingredients into a bowl and rub them together with your fingers until incorporated and crumbly. Sprinkle the crumbs over the fruit.

Bake the crisp at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes, or until the fruit is bubbling and soft and the crumbs are a crunchy golden brown.

Serve warm, with ice cream or milk.

This same time, years previous: drilling for sauce, barley and beans with sausage and red wine, peach and/or nectarine tart, thoughts on breastfeeding

I read bunches of stuff on the internet, some of it informative, some of it entertaining, some of it so-so, some of it brilliant. Lately I’ve come across a couple things worth sharing.

First up, Glennon. Do you know her? I didn’t until last week and then I promptly fell in love with her. It’s her writing, her honesty, her humor—I stayed up late one night just soaking it all in.

It was through Glennon that I got introduced to The Bloggess. (This is the second point.) I’ve known about the bloggess for ages, but I never really read her. I still may not read her regularly, but you have got to, simply MUST, read her chicken story. I SO need to get myself a chicken made out of metal drums.

That I can enjoy both down-and-dirty bloggers like the bloggess (she’s a little crass) and intentional, steady, the-earth-is-our-mother bloggers like SouleMama intrigues me. I respect the latter very much, especially the respectful sweetness with which she depicts their marriage. But me and my husband are much more like the former, all angst and metal chickens. So I read both blogs, ponder and snort, and then go about my life (while keeping one eye peeled for a large metal chicken to haul into battle with me).

(That wasn’t really a point.)

The third thing I’ve found is this little gem of a post by Swonderland. It’s about time and aging, and she says it all perfectly. I wish I wrote it.

Fourth and Fifth, Luisa made my roasted corn dish. It’s not really mine (I found it in Bon Appetit), but because I made it first I own it a little more than she does, I like to think. (Oh? That’s not how it works? Well, okay then . You win.) And upon my recommendation Sarah read Life of Pi and liked it and if you haven’t read it yet you should. (Also, she posted this quote by Carl Frederick Buechner, “They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel.” I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried.)

Sixth, this little video of Elizabeth Gilbert lecturing on genius and creativity is a good one. If you have an artistic side (and most people do, I think), you’ll welcome the twenty minutes of enlightenment.

Seventh, a quote from Misha Leigh’s blog.

I have a friend who talks about how we live our life in teaspoonfuls instead of big drinks. We often are so thirsty for the big gulps, she says, that we miss the perfect teaspoons of joy right there in front of us.

She said to me that she thinks this is the way love works, too. We wish it would work instant miracles and create dramatic change – but instead love tends to chip away tiny bits of change at a time. And if we hang in there long enough, and celebrate the teaspoonfuls, eventually, sometimes, we do sometimes see some big redemptions.

I get impatient with all the little teaspoons that make up my day. I like big action, big talk, big taste, big happiness. Yet my life is made up of hundreds of these teaspoons of joy. Hundreds, people. And I have the gall to get impatient with them? I have so much to learn.

This same time, years previous: peach cornmeal cobbler and fresh peach ice cream, tomato and red wine sauce, vegetable beef soup, mustard eggs, and Russian pancakes

Me and my camera got all sorts of close and cuddly this weekend (and beyond). Here are some of the things we observed together.

*This picture cracks me up.

It’s the pants.

I took the picture without evening noticing, and then when I was uploading (downloading, transferring, whatever) my pictures, I saw the obvious and about peed myself. One kid wearing cut off sweats and the other two kids each wearing one of the pink cast off legs…on their heads. While playing with chicks.

It is a perfect depiction of my children. This is who they are.

You know how people joke about all the therapy their kids will need as a result of having been raised by such inept fools as themselves? I’ve come to believe the joke has it backwards. It’s the parents who will need the therapy once the kids leave home. Especially if their kids are the type to wear pink pant legs on their heads while playing with chicks.

*I’ve been feeding my kids fluffernutter sandwiches and am now a saint in their little blue eyes.

I bought the goopy poison to make a hot fudge sauce (I was not wowed) and then we had leftover hot dog buns and, well, happiness happened.

There was also tabbouleh (so the fluffernutter naysayers among you don’t totally freak out).

My husband didn’t like it. In fact, he took one bite and immediately sprinted to the sink to spit.

“It tastes like parsley!” he said disgustedly.

“That’s ‘cause it is, m’dear,” I chirped sweetly.

And then I got to eat the whole batch all by myself, yum.

*On Saturday, there was a morning birthday breakfast for a dear friend.

I drank way too much coffee but the buzz was worth the headache I got later. (‘Cause there’s pills for that, you know.)

*Also on Saturday, my parents closed on their thirteen acre property that’s just two measly miles from our house! And then they immediately turned into boxcar children who done did growed up.

They’ve been clearing the land via scythe (my dad) and machete (my mom!). They set up a tent, built a fire pit, and made a sorry failure of a latrine. They even skipped church on Sunday. “I’ll be going to the Church of the Roaring Saw,” my dad said.

Ground breaking for their hut is scheduled to start next summer. Or maybe the next, depending. But if I had my druthers, it’d be tomorrow. Or yesterday.

*My mother told the story of the crooked mouth family to my baby.

He hung on her every word, quietly and unknowingly imitating her mouth contortions.

This blurry picture, the closing shot of the story, sums up perfectly why I can’t wait for my parents to move here.

*This child filled the tub and then went swimming in it. Totally not allowed.

But it happened anyway. Obviously.

And then she got her grandaddy to brush her hair.

*I’ve been steadily storing up my red raspberries, to the tune of an ample quart every other day.

It doesn’t sound like much, but it adds up sho’ nuff.

*While I was picking this morning’s berries, the two littles mucked it up real good.

We’ve had two delicious rains and the ditch that the kids and the Fresh Air girl dug together got right puddly. I told the kids they could play in it as long as they didn’t get too muddy.

What a stupid thing to say.

I ignored them while they made muck cakes and muck ponds and muck muck, only periodically muttering stuff like, “Not in the hair,” and, “I’d rather you didn’t sit down.” But I knew I was in real trouble when I heard them talking about sunblock, as in, “Here, you need some more sunblock on your legs…”

They needed two baths after that—one outside and one inside. Geesh.

*Today was salsa day, three big old batches of the stuff.

The kids worked right along with me. In fact, I didn’t have to chop any of the tomatoes myself.

And that, my friends, is what I call progress.

Over and out.

This same time, years previous: washing machine worship and other miscellany, apples